The First Quarter Quell
by AnimalCharmer
Summary: While the fires of the first rebellion are still being quenched by the Capitol, one of the first victors of the Hunger Games must try to survive against the odds. The First Quarter Quell threatens to destroy what's left of her. Can she save the man she loves? Or will he fall with the rest. OC/OC pairing Review please!
1. Chapter 1

_Blood. Blood was threatening to drown her as she fought to get the heavy weight off of her, to free herself so that she could run. Run! She had to get out of here. Surely they had already heard her, were already coming with their sharp sword and knives. Coming to finish what the boy on top of her had started. _

_With a grunt of effort she shoved him off of her and stumbled to her feet already knowing what she would see. Surrounding her were the faces of each of the other children, the other tributes in the arena. As they started towards her she could hear Snow's smug voice call out, "Happy Hunger Games…"_

I came awake with a shriek muffled only by my clenched teeth. My breath came out in ragged bursts as I automatically searched her room for intruders and struggled to calm her racing heart. The nightmares had been a constant reminder of how much my survival in the games had forever haunted her.

Pushing back the covers, I padded silently down the immaculately decorated house given to me by the Capitol situated in the center of her District's newly built Victor's Village. The first hints of dawn were slowly brightening the sky and I stared out the window at the nearby woods with longing. The only other house occupied in the Victor's Village was still dark and she wondered if Grey had as many nightmares as I did or if the alcohol really did help.

Quickly I changed out of the sweat soaked clothes I slept in and grabbed my shoes pausing in the kitchen to stuff some food into her pack before I walked out the door. The smell of fuel and the chemicals that made up my district's economy were a constant reminder of life after the rebellion. My district still bore the scars of the fighting that had taken place here only thirty five years ago.

After the Capitol destroyed District 13 and the other Districts only hope of success, they quickly and brutally began putting down the last pockets of rebellion and enforcing their control over the conquered area. Their soldiers, the so-called Peacekeepers, were sent out into the Districts to ensure that there was no chance of another outbreak. To keep the people contained they created curfews, stricter laws, and limited the amount of food and supplies available and ignored the number of deaths caused by starvation and punishments because of this. _I guess they hoped that people would be more concerned with surviving than rebellion_, I thought absently while avoiding a Peacekeeper's gaze.

The worst had come after the reinstatement of Capitol power. The President of the Capitol city, Iberius Snow, had created another, darker, punishment for the districts—The Hunger Games. Truthfully, it was his son's idea to punish the districts even more after rumors of another rebellion reached the ears of the Capitol. Ruben Snow made a name for himself in the Capitol's political circles for being ruthless and cunning at an early age. Now, at age 18, it was obvious to the districts and the Capitol that once his father died, Ruben would quickly take his place and was not afraid to violence to assure his victory.

The first games were massacres. The tributes chosen and the self-proclaimed 'Game makers' were new to the idea of this type of slaughter and the Games would end far too quickly for Ruben or the Capitol audiences. Over time, the Game Makers were able to use the Capitol's access to technology and money to design arenas and situations that increased the popularity of each year's event. They had even managed to make the broadcasts of the Games mandatory for the districts and modeled it after some sort of bloody game show. We were supposed to celebrate each Hunger Games. To bet and cheer on our favorite tributes. As though by watching and becoming attached to each new victor would unite the districts and the Capitol and stop our rebellious natures.

Each year the districts would be visited by a special team of Capitol TV personalities and workers to choose one boy and one girl as tributes to be sacrificed in front of thousands of screaming Capitol and district citizens. In order to hit the districts where it would hurt the most, the tributes would be chosen from a pool of children ranging from twelve to eighteen years old. Once your name was called, you would be swept into the luxurious world of the Capitol for a few days of training and interviews before being brought to the arena. Only one tribute came out of the arena alive. Two years ago, that lone tribute was me.

Somehow I managed to escape from that hell hole and return to my district, forced to live alone with my memories. The winners of the Hunger Games are returned to their district and given money, food, and a new home with their families in area they call the 'Victor's Village'. District 6 has had two tributes make it into the Victor's Village. The other victor, Grey, survived the 10th Hunger Games and has been drinking away the memories of it ever since except when his housekeeper Terra is around. I've seen her sitting with him out in the sun for hours talking to him—it's the only time I've ever seen him smile.

When he was my mentor, he had been distant, still broken from the horrors of the arena and the constant reminding that no matter what he did, he would be responsible for the death of more tributes. At the time, I had been so terrified and intimidated by the large, scarred man that I hadn't pushed it. Now I understand the guilt, the anger, and the depression that lurks beneath each and every victor's gaze.

Walking out of the clean and attractive homes in the Victor's Village and the richer section of our district I began the long walk to the slums. Here I could already see people up and about, readying themselves for another day of work. The houses leaned precariously against each other and I knew that each floor was packed with poor families struggling to avoid starvation.

District 6 is considered the transportation hub of the districts and the Capitol. At any time of day or night there is at least one train rushing into the Capitol with more of the district's goods. Hover crafts move smaller loads of materials into the other districts or into the loading areas. On the other side of the city, barges moved shipments from District 4 into larger shipping containers. Because of the demands of the Capitol, there are workers stationed 24/7 at the loading and transport bays to continue feeding the Capitols demands.

Turning down a familiar street, I ignored the looks of the people that recognized me here. Most people avoided me for fear that the violence I displayed in the arena would somehow come out at them. With a sigh, I kept my gaze on the roads to avoid the looks of fear, censure, and loathing. No matter what the Capitol does, they can't force people to accept a girl that is responsible for the deaths of ten other tributes, including one of their own.

Moving quickly now I entered one of the housing units and trudged up the stairs hoping that Cora had not already left for work. Rapping quietly on the door, I listened to the sounds of her children with a smile as they shouted and laughed with eachother as they got ready for school. The door opened to reveal a somewhat frazzled looking Cora who smiled when she saw me.

"Wren. Did you bring more food?" she asked, while brushing a strand of mousy brown hair out of her face.

I nodded and handed her the bag I'd brought with me, "That's all I have until next month's shipment."

She accepted the bag with a slight frown, "What're you going to do until then?"

Her concern made me uncomfortable…it reminded me of things that had long ago left me. I looked away and started to leave, "I'll be fine Cora. Just make sure the kids get this."

Before she could ask me any more questions I quickly walked away. Unlike most of the Victor's, when I went to the arena I didn't have a family that mourned for me or hoped that I would return. My father had been accused of being a part of one of the groups trying to restart the rebellion and had been executed when I was just a baby. My mother had fallen into a depression that eventually overwhelmed her. Without any parents I would have been sent into one of the state institutions for orphans if it weren't for a family like Cora's who took me in. Now, I try to repay that debt by making sure that none of their kids go hungry.

Lost in thought I started to run towards the Victor's Village and the safety of my solitary existence. Dodging through the crowds of people heading to work I ducked around a man carrying support beams for one of the railcars and ran flat out into a very solid chest. My momentum caused both of us to tumble to the ground and instinct made me twist so that I landed on top of the man's chest with one of my knives pressed to his neck.

Bright green eyes blinked up at me in shock and I flinched as though I'd been struck. _Of course. Of course it _had_ to be him_. Titus Keene. Quickly I tried to put the knife away and run before he realized it was me but already his eyes had hardened and glared up at me. As I started to move off him, he brusquely moved me off of him and stood brushing the dirt off of him. A crowd had already started to gather and my heart sank as I recognized the man pushing his way to the front.

"Titus! What the hell is taking you so—" Titus' father, Whytt, stared at me with disgust. "What are you doing in town murderer?"

The crowd glared at me with varying shades of fear and hatred. I didn't blame them though. I was never the tribute they wanted to see walk out of the arena. An orphaned girl would have been the perfect tribute to see fall, not her counterpart the young, ambitious son of a railroad worker.

I still remember the sensation of standing alone on the stage, looking out into the crowd of families that were nearly smiling in thanks that their precious little girls weren't chosen. I was still in shock and fighting back waves of fear when they called the male tribute, Bran Selkirk. A ripple had gone through the crowd as a tall, young man had moved forward. I remembered seeing Titus start to follow him but get held back as his cousin and friend walked to the stage.

Closing my eyes, I saw other, harsher images flash through my mind. Bran in training, easily making friends with the Career tributes. The sound of his laughter as he stalked me through the night, ready to end my life. Watching the life slowly bleed from his eyes as he died, falling on top of me.

Forcing the memories away, I stood and looked down at Titus, "I'm sorry…I wasn't watching where I was going…"

He looked away silently as he grabbed his pack from where it had fallen. Whytt spat at my feet, "Get out of here tribute. No one wants your kind around here."

Anger flashed hot and sudden in my veins as I stared at the crowd of workers. It wasn't my fault I wanted to scream. Instead I straightened to my full height and glared at all of them before slowly walking away, heading towards the Victor's Village once more. As soon as I was out of sight, I began to run trying to ignore the tears that threatened to spill.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

In some districts, like 1 and 2, the returning victors are seen as heroes and people fight to become and member of their ranks. The rebellion wasn't as widespread or popular there so they did not face the punishments the rest of the districts did. The Hunger Games were a part of their culture already it seemed. Not like here.

It was foolish to have gone into town with so many people up and about especially so close to the next set of games. Usually I deliver all the food I can spare in the night when there is only a skeleton crew of workers. I had been hoping to avoid any more run ins with Whytt and his band of angry men. As soon as I had returned from the Victory Tour he had made it very clear that he blamed me for the death of his nephew.

He was right. I killed Bran on one of my very last nights in the arena. I had survived up until that time by hiding and running from any signs of other tributes. That was the only skill I had really. But once the pool of victors had begun to dwindle, the Game Makers continually forced me out of my hiding spots until it was clear that I was going to have to face someone.

Bran had been hunting for a while. I think he thought I would be an easier target since I wasn't known to be a fighter or have any skill with a sword or bow. And they were right. I didn't have any skill with the larger weapons, my size and strength didn't allow for it. My weapon of choice was a knife. That night in the arena, the only knife I had left from the two I'd managed to save from the Cornucopia was about eight inches long and lethally sharp. Enough to finish this fight if need be.

The arena had been made of two large mountains and a low valley where the Cornucopia rested. Snow fell consistently everywhere except for the valley and the temperatures were freezing with biting winds that could tear you from the sides of the mountain if you weren't careful. The sides of the mountain were easy enough to climb but the sides were littered with caves of varying sizes that could hold any number of monstrous things or nothing…if you were lucky.

When we were first dropped into the arena I managed to snag one of the larger backpacks with supplies by sprinting ahead of the others. The carnage had started almost immediately. Hot blood sprayed out onto the frostbitten grass and made it difficult to run. I saw a boy go down beside me, a knife in his side. Without thinking, I yanked it out of him and ran as hard and as fast as I could for one of the peaks.

The next few days were spent climbing and hiding near the base of the mountain in order to give myself a chance to run if necessary. After killing most of the other tributes, the Careers began climbing onto the mountain to hunt down the rest of us forcing me to go higher. The backpack I had snagged had given me enough warm clothing and sleeping material that I was able to weather the storms and aching winds.

The night Bran came for me was one of the worst storms I had seen in the arena. The Game Makers obviously wanted to ensure that there was a fight and that I wouldn't be able to escape again. Eventually I gave up climbing and found a terrace-like ridge that would give me enough space to maneuver in a fight. I remember my hands were shaking uncontrollably and that I finally was able to ignore the cold.

When he materialized out of the howling winds and snow, he didn't seem real at first. Too big, too fast, too skilled for me to stand a chance. He had lost his weapons in the climb and I guess he had planned to kill me with his bare hands—even then I knew my chances of survival were slim. I took a step back, instinctively wanting to run when he rushed forward with a roar that shook me to my bones. The next moments were a blur. I remember him coming at me and me attempting to turn and run before he could reach me. Then there was the heavy blow of his body he struck me with a grunt. The world went dark for a moment.

When I came to I can remember being stunned to even wake up, to feel the cold wind again. Bran's body was still laying over me. Then I felt it, warm, hot, and sticky. Covering me with the symbol of what I was—a murderer. Shakily I had gotten to my feet and began struggling to wipe it off and looked at Bran in horror. His eyes stared blankly up at me as the life slowly bled out of him.

I screamed and felt a wall of rushing whiteness consume me.


End file.
